


ballad | elegy

by oceangraves



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: M/M, These are going to be pretty short, mainly focused on Patroclus and just short-ish things at a time, screams, there’s probably going to be no plot lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 08:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17700548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceangraves/pseuds/oceangraves
Summary: “Achilles,” whisper the dead, silent against the rage of the ocean.





	ballad | elegy

**Author's Note:**

> I read the book and sat down, wrote this in one sitting and just,,,,m, cried
> 
> Achilles changed so much

I knew you, thousands of years before, and I know you now.

You are Achilles, one of Greece’s mightiest heroes. _Aristos Achaion_ , greater than any before and many to come. Soldiers whisper your name like a prayer; your name is sung by poets and historians, a name spun together with Heracles and Perseus. Your name, _Achilles_ , son of King Peleus of Phthia, son of the sea goddess Thetis. A prince, and a golden one, your golden hair forming a crown on your head, rippling waves of sunlight flowing with every movement. They see how beautiful and handsome you are; your toned muscles, your sculpture-like face, voice like wild honey flowing from your tongue. Other men see you as a force to be revered: your spear piercing across the air, the blade of your sword glinting in the rays of the sun before striking, slashing, killing. You, hardened by the sights of war, a boy of seventeen.

Your name is like the sweet melody of a lyre, one that rolls off my tongue like marble. _Achilles._ I call to you, you always answer. You give me many names: _Therapon, Philtatos_ —and simply Patroclus, every syllable falling from your lips crisp and clear like a spring from the Pelion mountain. ( _Pa-tro-clus._ ) I would breathe it in, soak in every part of you: the way you moved, the way your muscles and hair rippled and flowed with every movement you made, the way you struck the air with your spear, the way you ran with me and was triumphant in every race. I love watching the pads of your feet, pink like tongues licking the soil of the earth, swift and beautiful, without callouses. Your hands, deft and nimble; I memorised the way they wrapped around your spear, the way they wrapped around my fingers. Your smile contagious; I love the way you tip your head, as if shy, then take my hand in yours, calling my name. Your hair like waterfalls, your lips moving coral with every breath. Sometimes I could smell the savagery of the ocean on you after you visit your mother at the jagged rocks on the coast. At other times, you smell like almonds and honey, at the same time not quite. The scent of you ghosts on my skin after your touch.

Flickers of gold in your sea green eyes, catching the smallest rays of light, fierce against the soft bronze of your skin. I love watching you playing the lyre, your fingers going gracefully over the strings, creating soft and soothing melodies. You hum your song, and I feel steady vibrations from your throat with my fingers. Your voice flows onto my skin, lingering and sweet, angelic.

I love how you are always without malice, only possessing the innocence, purity and kindness of a child. I love how you play with the hem of my tunic under the table when you thought your father wasn’t looking, idly listening to his stories of Greek legends before you. I love the way you admired your own strength, presenting yourself not more and not less than you are so, posing with the grace and dignity of a name etched in history. I love the way you stand firm in your beliefs, never once backing down, always trusting in your ability, your fluency and power given by the gods.

I love how straightforward you are—isn’t it a sort of genius to cut to the heart? Without restraint you speak your mind, without restraint you tell me everything you know. At night you tell me names of constellations: Orion, Ursa Major, Pegasus. You raise your hand up at the ceiling of the rose-quartz cave—a corner in the expanse of the universe— and I see you smile as if you have defeated all the knowing gods and our fickle futures.

Then you turn to look at me, hand still raised, an invitation to be a part of your narrative—your fingers clasp mine, and for a fleeting moment I feel as if I were invincible.

“Patroclus,” you say, fingers interlacing mine.

I am Patroclus, your _Therapon_ , your _Philtatos_ , your _Pa-tro-clus_.

Achilles, I knew you then, I know you now.


End file.
